


You're Next

by impassiveimp



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Eventual Manipulative Will, Fluff and Angst, Gen, I will add more as I go on., M/M, Manipulative Hannibal, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Psychological Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-19 16:37:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1476628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impassiveimp/pseuds/impassiveimp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles centering around Frederick Chilton and his relationship with others, or his relationship with his pathetic life.</p>
<p>Will range from darker topics to more humorous things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm unsure how often this will update, but it's a good outlet for all my Chilton-related feelings and ideas. For now none of the chapters will be related in any way unless specified.

Title: None.

Warnings: None. Just people talking.

Info: An attempt at a little drabble because I find Hannibal and Chilton’s dynamics to be interesting and I wish there was more on them/the potential ship. Set after Futamono and seriously not following the potential plot we may get these next few episodes. 

\----

The restaurant has a pleasant atmosphere that is emphasized by the low lighting and string instruments playing an engaging melody somewhere near the middle of the building. It’s high class; the silverware gleams and the crimson floor is polished enough that a patron could see their own reflection if they looked hard enough. It hosts intimately small tables served by immaculately dressed waiters that seem to glide more than walk, fresh meals that steam and conjure alluring aromas no matter the dish, and no more than murmurs from each party that attends their reserved time—Frederick finds that he loathes it all.

His own plate that sits before him is a fantastic work of art, a salad made of colorful coordinating ingredients and a creamy sauce drizzled over the crisp lettuce and its additions. The first bite proves it to be delicious, though now he cannot continue to even nibble at it. It’s a beautiful restaurant filled with beautiful and influential people, some glancing at him quizzically as he stares down at his meal with a carefully blank expression.

Over _twenty damn dollars_ for a salad, food that he’s already payed for, and one that he cannot even stomach enough to eat.

His stomach throbs, scar stretching over the expanse of his belly almost painfully.

What’s the matter with him?

Well that’s a bit of a redundant question, _everyone_ seems to know what’s wrong with him. Is there no secret that the FBI hasn’t unearthed, no mistake not yet _taunted_ by those in his care? His jaw clenches just a bit more tightly, teeth grinding together. It’s a bad habit that he seems to have picked up ever since his private time with Abel. The mere memory of seeing his red drenched organs pulsing and Gideon’s hands intruding so personally into his gut for the sake of a _gift basket_ is enough to make him swallow nervously.

And now? Now he’s realized he might’ve gotten involved once again in something that isn’t quite as rewarding as previously thought. Abel was and still is bad enough with his delusions, though, admittedly, that wasn’t _quite_ all his fault. Frederick resists the urge to tap his finger on the tabletop, instead fidgeting with his ring, twisting it absently. Hannibal is an entirely different playground, a dangerous one that is littered with bear traps and illegal intentions.

The party that he’d attended only a few nights before is vivid enough to make his stomach twinge again and hands tremble.

He knew.

Hannibal knew that he suspected him and the awful realization had nearly sent him running if it wouldn’t have been considered rude and painted a more obvious target on his back. As it is, he’s wondering if he should be running know, moving far away for a much deserved vacation. Will Graham is certainly a fascinating subject and one that requires his full attention rather than the psychotic pickings of a mad-man, but he doesn’t want to die before he can figure everything out. What a waste that would prove to be—he’s far too important to be dragged down to the level of every previous victim.

There’s a surge of something. Is it hope? A flare of willpower to live? He’d told Jack that it was Darwinism guiding him through the tense charades necessary to pull himself to the end of the party. Would he allow himself to be put down like a dog by Hannibal of all people? Be cooked into a meal and served to eager guests?

No.

He needs to find a way out, a means to be safe until he can figure how exactly to reveal Hannibal’s secret. It’s not like any of the other idiots will find a way—of that he’s certain of. Jack’s intense desire to defend Hannibal’s honor as though the man _has_ any, is disgusting and much more of a nuisance that he’d originally reasoned. And Alana? Well, she’s blinded by her years spent with the psychopath, he wouldn’t expect her to suddenly put the puzzle pieces together.

So caught up in his thoughts the doctor doesn’t notice his extra company until it’s too late.

“Frederick?” An excited voice cuts through his thoughts like a razorblade, snaps him out of his trance with a twitch, “It is you!”

Words die in his mouth, recede to the back of his throat and turn to ash, choking him. One of his old (and quite short lived) partners stands before him, magnificent in an olive colored dress, an arm linked sociably with none other than Hannibal Lecter whose gaze is trained on his face.

Frederick finds that he wants to bolt like a frightened animal being discovered by a hungry predator. It both annoys and confuses him, a mixture of emotions radiating off of his being before he manages to carefully school his expression back to neutrality. He does the only thing he can: pretend.

“Margaret!” He answers with false cheer, “How good to…see you. And Doctor Lecter. What a treat.”

Hannibal’s answering smile is wrapped in underlying dark tones, welcoming and too knowing.

“Doctor Chilton.” His voice is barely above a murmur but the words carry all too well, “What a pleasant surprise.”

Frederick highly doubts that. Irritation flares, though it is cooled by his ever present fear. He switches his attention back to Margaret, a safer option even if she is quite the waste of time. Her eyes are keenly swapping between both himself and her companion and it’s obvious that she hadn’t expected the two to know each other and is floundering for words. Serves her right.

“You’ve met before?” She carefully questions.

“Several times.” Hannibal graciously answers, “We are colleagues. And in my eyes, friends.”

He resists the urge to roll his eyes, “ _friends_ ” rolled around on Hannibal’s tongue like rotten honey—far too sweet and tinged with sinister intent. Margaret accepts the response, smiles politely at Frederick once again who grips his hands together tighter.

“Well, we wouldn’t want to impede on your…dinner.” Margaret’s gaze travels over his table, rests on the empty seat across from him with satisfaction.

It’s humiliating, the way she pointedly makes Frederick remember that yes, he is eating alone and yes, this is normal for him. His cheeks flush just a shade darker, the blush traveling down past the collar of his shirt. He wants to grab his cane and hobble out the door, away from this horrid woman and the cannibal that she’s linked to, but that would only cause a scene and if there’s anything Chilton wants more than anything, it’s for Hannibal’s sights to be set elsewhere. 

“Yes, of course. I’m sure you are busy and I _do_ have a meal to finish.” He finally agrees, ignoring the way Margaret’s perfectly plucked eyebrows raise.

“It looks delicious, Frederick.”

The doctor jolts near violently. Hannibal has, for all appearances, seemed to have made the comment while staring him down with those damn unreadable eyes. The way he says his name is almost like a content purr but it does nothing to reassure him, only makes him feel more cornered and helpless. Against his will his palms begin to sweat while he conjures up a smile.

“It is, Doctor Lecter.”

“Perhaps I will have a taste later.” A thinly veiled threat laced through a cannibal-themed joke, something Frederick likes to believe that he’d be able to handle but can’t quite stop his stomach from roiling nauseously.

“…I doubt you’d care for it.” He splutters, furious at himself for not yet finding a way to end this conversation. Margaret is quite plainly confused, not wanting to make her partner follow her, but not wanting to dwell any longer on Chilton.

“Perhaps.” Hannibal smiles disarmingly down at him, though there is a shadow of a smirk in his voice, “Good evening, Doctor Chilton.”

“Good—good evening.”

Just as soon as the two appear, they leave, drifting through the throngs of tables. Frederick waits until they’re out of sight to relax, feeling boneless and exhausted. Before him his salad waits to be finished, dressing seeping into the lettuce and tomatoes lazily. He can faintly hear Margaret’s laugh over the background noise of the crowd, and there’s a waiter eyeing him like he wishes he would finish his food faster. Beside him his cane gleams in the dull light, metal smudged with fingerprints.

He finds that he’s suffocating and needs to leave, and so he does, standing and then limping away as quickly as he can without appearing to be running.

Dark eyes watch his retreat with interest from the back of the restaurant, calculating, cold, and promising much to come.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Songbird
> 
> Warnings: Not really anything again. Nothing sexual.
> 
> Info: The latest episode has destroyed me. As such I’ve written my own ending for Chilton (it’s still unfortunate for him). Since Raul is Cuban-American and sings like an angel, I decided to let these facts sink into Chilton’s character. Basically, I’m taking creative liberties in both backstory and certain aspects of Chilton’s character.
> 
> Please excuse my lame attempts to write this pairing—I am not used to writing fanfiction of any kind still.

i.

He’d been too suspicious.

That’s what led to this fate. He could’ve never realized that it’d be this bad, he’d only predicted that death would follow his intense accusations, that he’d end up presented as a five course meal even when he’d tried so hard to play harmless at dinner parties. Hannibal had _winked_ at him for god’s sake.

That had been the sign.

But, well, Frederick could’ve never realized Hannibal knew he _sang_ to himself.

ii.

Broadway musicals were always an obsession for him. Since he’d been small, young and carefree and not involved with psychopathic cannibal murderers, he’d watched all kinds of musicals via VHS. His family had been too poor to afford anything better and see the action up close. He never resented it, only became more determined.

When Frederick turned fifteen his father struck gold in the business industry, won a few important figures over, and they moved to a better home. Their neighbors were well off white families of five that hosted dinner parties every so often and spoke of topics that people of that class are supposed to know. His mother, a Cuban woman who tried excessively hard to please, was enamored with the lifestyle and cliques that came with it. His father, a hardworking and often neglectful parental figure, sipped at expensive wine with the other men and talked numbers after reviewing papers all day.

It was in awful lifestyle but it had it’s benefits. Suddenly Frederick could, for instance, buy two candybars instead of one because he didn’t need to worry about where that extra dollar could have gone. His new school had the sort of children that he’d used to look at from afar and sneer at in jealousy. They were unpleasant, fully aware of the life he’d come from and made sure to hold it over his head. At five feet and two inches Frederick couldn’t do much of anything, a late bloomer physically and vulnerable emotionally.

And so the boy simply didn’t make friends, kept to himself, sealed his lips shut tightly, and threw himself into his schoolwork. He wanted to prove to them that he could be better; he could be smarter and more successful. It was by utter chance that he noticed the theater club when he walked by on his way to the library and had seen them reenacting a scene from _Wicked_. He remembers thinking that it was amateur but beautiful.

Two weeks and an awkward talk with his father later, Frederick had joined the theater business, promising to keep his concentration on his grades and to treat this club like a passing hobby—nothing more, nothing less. He didn’t quite talk enough to ever get a big role, didn’t quite have the confidence to get anything past “random passerby #3” or “student #6”, but he was content. Being on the other side the curtain was both interesting and intimidating, but a rewarding enough experience.

As it went, Frederick’s parents came to the musical and clapped politely for him when he took a bow with the cast. He didn’t do anything past walk across the stage or pretend to talk to other cast members, but it was exhilarating to clasp hands with people he still didn’t know and beam at the audience cheering for them. For him.

The added bonus was the trip to New York that they would take the following weekend to catch an actual Broadway musical.

 _Peter Pan_ was awe-inspiring and Frederick realized that perhaps he may have a more than passing interest in the theater business. It only made sense then that he quit the club the second he returned and never acknowledge it again outside of polite, vague glances. His father, as well as even himself, wanted him to be successful—not singing and dancing across a stage for a few coins.

Still, Frederick never quite left theater fully and if he practiced singing on the side when no one was around to hear, well…no one would know.

iii.

College passed uneventfully and Frederick made sure to emphasize how much smarter he was by scoring higher than most of his classmates time and time again. Test results aren’t a good example of proving a person’s worth, but they were the perfect tool to help him practice the art of self confidence. Here his attitude developed into something more than mumbled words under his breath and eyes downcast at the floor. Most anyone that met him acknowledged he had a sharp tongue and penchant for sentences that cut to a person’s core.

He had a mask jammed into place; metaphorical walls built high enough to ensure that no one could hurt him again without his consent. And it worked.

Frederick never claimed to be a saint, but he never claimed to be a villain either. He was perfectly content to remain on the outskirts of friendship, near enough to have contacts in the business if need be, but far enough that social gatherings were few and far in between (giving him more time to study and prepare for the GRE and enroll in a graduate program).

He passed with flying colors and went on to cultivate his doctorate degree. His parents had never been more proud. His singing was an afterthought.

iv.

Five years later, a Ph.D. in criminal psychology, and a few job interviews found Frederick taking on his first roll. It went astoundingly horrible. Too late did the young man realize he was not meant to be in the field and that he would much rather study the caught criminals themselves rather than the crime scenes.

v.

It took luck, perseverance, and a few connections to finally become the administrator of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. It would take longer to cultivate a cocktail of psychopaths that would reside under his wing and undergo rehabilitation, but ultimately it would prove to be rewarding. After all, fame can be grown so easily in higher psychiatric circles if one can claim they have this and that in their care. It was during this time that Hannibal Lecter finally came into his sights, praised as an astounding doctor and someone to look to as a role model.

Frederick found that he hated him.

Still, he would need to at the very least acknowledge the man if he wanted to keep up with the rise and fall of other colleague's success. Honestly he’d had very few conversations with the other doctor, and usually it was over dinner parties and through brief exchanges of polite pleasantries, going through the mechanical motions of appreciating someone he didn’t actually care for. Yes, he was jealous of the attention Hannibal received. But he found him more insufferable than anything; another person who didn’t seem all that special but had more than _him_.

There were other flavors of psychologists—Alana Bloom, Jack Crawford, Will Graham—but they never quite struck him as hard as Hannibal Lecter. There was just something about the man that was different, that set him apart, and it drove Frederick mad. In many ways he resented his hospital full of unstable criminals, stuck with the bed he’d made. He wanted more, always had and always would. In the late evenings after sessions with one or two individuals predictably went poorly, he found himself driving home and aggressively singing to whatever musical he had on hand in the car.

Sometimes it’s _Cats_. Sometimes _Phantom of the Opera_. Even ranging from _Les Miserables_ to _Hair_. It became a stress relief to sing his mounting anxiety away when no one could see or hear, normally in the safety of his vehicle driving down the road, or in his home which remained clinically barren of company and obsessively clean. He built a secret collection of DVD performances of numerous Broadway musicals and sometimes he skimmed through forums, commenting on actors and actresses that he felt could have been better suited to the roll of, say, _trashcan_ with those vocals.

Perhaps it was here that he wasn't cautious enough in these endeavors.

vi.

When he stumbles over foreign bags, landing heavily on the floor while his stomach roils unhappily, Frederick feels both distant pity for Gideon and mounting horror at the situation playing out. His scar is aching and he feels as though he might faint. He’s panicking, taking short, quick breaths as he scrambles to figure out _what the hell_ is going on. It’s the even, near silent footsteps that stop before him that makes him break into an icy sweat and has his heart skipping a beat.

The monster above him is smug and knows that he cannot escape. Still he does fight, limbs working in overdrive to attempt to carry him away from the danger, away from a predator that can very well do what he wants. He’s locked into a vice grip from behind, a sheet of chloroform pressed unmercifully to his mouth and nose. Try as he might, fingers clawing into the other man’s arms, wanting to pry him away, he can feel himself falling limp in his grasp.

It’s the teetering unconsciousness that terrifies him the most, the mystery of what he might wake up to if he’s ever allowed the privilege again.

vii.

He comes to in a basement, in a cage, stripped to his undershirt and rumbled pants. There is no light, no sound, and most importantly, no one to help him.

viii.

“You have a beautiful voice, Frederick.” He says, “I appreciate good music to go with my meals.”

ix.

Frederick sings until his throat is raw and aching, often times red faced and desperately hiding his fear. Hannibal always watches with a hint of a smile, savoring his food and entertainment. It doesn’t take long for the doctor to lose his sense of time—has he been stuck here days? Weeks? _Months_? Hannibal never lets on, only informs him that the police are looking for the Chesapeake Ripper, a certain Dr. Frederick Chilton, and then drinks in the sight of the other man’s face falling and adam’s apple bobbing anxiously.

He’s fed victims of his captor, develops a taste for carefully cut and prepared grilled organs and delightfully roasted chunks of flesh. Frederick tries to resist, tries to starve much to Hannibal’s amusement. It doesn’t work. He’s too weak of a man to kill someone, let alone himself. In the end he wolfs down a dish that is composed mainly of tongue—an irony that is not lost on him. Later, when Hannibal leaves to do work, he pukes it up and the vomit mixes with his panicked tears. He can still eat meat, but it burns when it goes through him and not just because of the knowledge of what exactly it is that he’s consuming, but because physically it is a struggle for his insides.

The awful realization that the section of the basement he’s in is sound proof, that even when he can hear others stepping above him, they can’t hear him screaming for help and pounding on the bars of the cage, is one of the worst. There is no one that can save him from the careful fingers that thread through his hair, stroking his scalp and methodically shaving him with a straight razor to ensure that he doesn’t look “ _unpresentable_ ”. Sometimes Frederick wishes he would run it down his throat, slice deep into his neck and let him die. Sometimes he fantasizes of escape, of managing to pry a bar loose and limp to freedom. Sometimes he even wonders if he’s losing himself to his clever, awful, and at times, fearfully caring keeper.

There’s a label for this sort of attitude that he’s developing towards Hannibal during his captivity. He remembers knowing it at some point in his life, back when he was a free man that had the privilege of living in a house of his own. But he’s not a person anymore, and he may never earn that right again. 

x.

Hannibal sits down carefully with a glass of wine and a dish of delicious smelling dinner, sets a soundtrack, and hands Frederick sheets with lyrics on them. He promises that Chilton will enjoy this one, that he remembers it’s one of the doctor’s _favorites_.

Frederick wonders how Hannibal knows that, oddly appreciates the good doctor’s attentiveness to details when it comes to his forced entertainment, and grasps the flimsy papers in trembling hands. His voice shakes sometimes when he sings, bruises color his visible skin from sleeping awkwardly against caged walls or beating his fists bloody against them, and his eyes water with shame, humiliation, and fear, but also admiration and a developing twisted obsession for his owner. Hannibal finds him like a work of art in the making.

Truly, Frederick looks his best like this.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based off of a post on tumblr by softchilton: "i love the mental image of Chilton meandering through the frozen food section of a store with a shopping basket full of tv dinners and premade stuff like vegetable lasagna on his arm."

For all his fancy titles and polished Ph.D. plaque hanging on his office wall, Frederick Chilton is one of the worst people to hand instructions that detail how to cook a meal with the order to “get to it”.

His first realization occurred during his teenage years and it resulted in a kitchen that resembled a disaster sight so perfectly, that his mother was too speechless to ground him before he managed to escape to his room. After that she coached him on the intricacies of soups and easy to prep broths, a food group that Frederick can at least boast some know-how in. It’s not as though college ever gave him any drive to shop for meals outside of ramen or instant frozen foods. And given that Frederick rarely dates anyone, too intent on his work as he is, he never desires to impress another person through food either.

The bottom line is that the esteemed administrator of a criminal institution finds himself chowing down on a simple sandwich or his own special brand of chicken noodle soup everyday—which is to say that it has a bit more of a kick than most chicken noodle soups and is guaranteed to make a first-timer’s eyes and nose water horrifically and unattractively. Frederick never sees a problem with his creations, not until he's forced to socialize with various psychiatric circles and vaguely add onto gossip and chatter. Then and only then does he notice the freshly peeled fruits and perfectly roasted meats that are decorated in heavenly variations of spices, making him burn inwardly with jealousy while he smiles outwardly with practiced ease.

He may make his soups more… _flavorful_ than most he’s tried before, but there’s a large part of him that realizes he cannot do it impressively. It’s almost a sin how unfavorable his luck is in the kitchen.

Finding himself in front of a row of gently humming fridges in the frozen foods department at his local grocery store does nothing to help his self worth. He’s cradling a lean cuisine pathetically, staring down blankly at the enthusiastic green cover with detached interest. A mother steers her child carefully around his still form, eyeing him warily.

When exactly did he become so dependent on foods that don’t require skill to make? If his fellow colleagues ever caught wind that Frederick struggles with yet another simple task, surely he’d be the laughingstock of said group for quite some time. He frowns harder, the sides of his mouth pulling downward in a grimace of displeasure. He’s tired, incredibly so after his latest near useless question-but-no-answers session with Will Graham, and the thought of spending more than ten minutes on pulling together an easy to eat dinner makes him shudder uncomfortably.

Perhaps more than just the usual? Just to try?

Frederick carefully peeks down at his shopping cart, tries not to wince at the sight. At least he’d bought bread and certain vegetables to make his vegan-sandwiches, right? A man walks past, glances at his cart with a gaze that is almost sympathetic.

Frederick flushes and wheels away with a new found determination, loathing the trouble he sometimes has taking corners that make his stomach twinge in effort. He could start out small, maybe a rice and bean sort of meal? That could surely have various healthy veggies added to it, he’s positive of it. With some fruit for a fruit salad?

Soon his cart has been piled almost agonizingly high and it attracts the attention of other passing customers who have to carefully angle themselves around him as he shoves his way through to check-out. His cashier watches him unload all the items in a quick, business-like manner with something akin to despair.

Well, too bad. If she hadn’t wanted to scan food for a living, she shouldn’t have gotten a job in the grocery business. They make brief eye contact and Frederick makes sure to scowl at her and make her movements increase by at least a small percentage more. Soon, after some help from an awkward and near useless baggage boy who continuously eyes his cane, Frederick has arrived home is gingerly walking up the front stairs to the porch. It takes longer than normal to unload everything from his car (which is in dire need of a wash in his opinion) and into his fridge or pantry, but the end result has him placing his hands on his hips in pride.

He surveys his kitchen like a captain would their soldiers, calculating strengths and weaknesses and cataloging them away for later. He’ll need the rice, of course. And beans. But what else would go well?

…Perhaps he should’ve looked up recipes while he had been at the store. No matter though, he’s sure he can remember a few meals his mother made. The man smiles to himself and rolls his sleeves up, certain that this task must be simpler than he remembers it.

—

The end product nearly results in murder by food, a lone casualty that would’ve probably been laughed over by a forensics’ unit. It tastes _awful_.

The first bite is mushy but spicy, the second hard and candy-like. Frederick isn’t even positive how this could’ve happened given that he thinks he never put anything sweet in the bowl, let alone gelatinous…unless that wasn’t salt but sugar that he’d added a tablespoon of. Nevertheless, he drops the failed experiment into the trashcan and resolves to throw the bag out tomorrow, hidden under several others so that the garbage collectors can’t even catch a glimpse of it.

For now he’ll stick to his frozen dinner and boring late night shows—it’s better than that monstrosity.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: None
> 
> Warnings: None. People talking.
> 
> Info: I would of liked to see more Dark!Will talking to Frederick/intimidating him while still in the hospital, soooo yeah. A small drabble on that.

He realizes the mistake he’s made when Will’s thin, pale hand reaches out whipcord fast from the confines of his cage and grips the closest set of lapels, twisting the expensive cloth mercilessly between his surprisingly strong fingers. Frederick is allowed one loud wheeze of surprise, air choking in the back of his throat, before he’s yanked towards the other man. The metal is cold and unforgiving, making him wince in pain when he’s smacked into it. His chest is firmly locked in place against the square openings while his face presses awkwardly against one bar, lower half shifting anxiously to try and brace against the container.

“You seem nervous lately, Frederick.” Will’s voice is calm, deceptively quiet but loud enough to enunciate his consonants clearly.

Frederick’s fingers grasp the bars, hands free of his cane that he accidentally dropped in the ensuing chaos. The dark bar is laying close by but out of reach, a stark contrast to the lifeless tiles that his expensive shoes slip and slide on. Will’s other hand reaches out and slowly but pointedly curls around his other lapels, shifting his body from three-quarters to full-front at an even, far too controlled pace.

Before Frederick knows quite what to do, nervously shoving against the hold on him and trying to ignore the ache in his belly, Graham’s face is centimeters away from his own, close enough that when he talks the hot air from his mouth brushes against his lips.

“I wonder what caused _that_?” His tone is laced acidicly with sarcasm, poisonous enough to make Frederick flinch.

“If you do not let me go I will call a guard and you will be forcibly escorted back to your cell.” When Chilton speaks his words come out jumbled and rushed, a far cry from the collected prisoner before him.

Will seems to contemplate this threat for a second, turning his head this way and that and allowing his eyes to drift to the side. His dark curls fall lower than they did before he was admitted, shadowing his expressions and making him appear to be much more dangerous. Frederick pulls tentatively away again only to have those clenched hands grip him tighter and pull him flat against the cage once more. He can’t stop the small grunt of surprise and pain at that, eyes scrunching closed momentarily.

When he opens them again Will Graham is close enough to kiss him.

“ _He’s on to you_.” Will whispers, locking his eyes with Frederick’s with such intensity that the administrator is the one to break first.

The other man finally lets go, allowing Chilton to sag with relief and then quickly place distance between them. Graham unhurriedly sits down on his small metal seat, bracing his elbows gingerly on his legs and watching him with a too bright gaze. It seems to pierce Frederick to his core. His hands are shaking, trembling with fear from both what just occurred and what Will’s words imply, and it takes more effort than he’d like to admit for him to finally get his cane back in his hold.

Later, when Will is safely back in his cell and laying on his bed, Chilton watches him from his laptop and tries not to concentrate on the tendrils of dread curling in the back of his mind.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: None
> 
> Warnings: Lots of puppies
> 
> Info: Okay but seriously imagine if Will had let Chilton stay and basically adopted him like one of his strays I mean for real. Very short since I'm still experimenting with these characters.

The dogs smell rancid. Horridly so.

Chilton wrinkles his nose as another takes the time to lick a strip up the side of his face, leaving a drool trail that stinks to high heaven. He viciously wipes at his cheek with one of the woolen sleeves of the sweater he’s borrowing, grumpily watching the canines piled close him. The smallest of the bunch has been curled up in his lap for an hour now, and despite Frederick’s earlier vehement protests to not being an animal person in any way, he’s allowed this if only because it’s like having a small heater on his pants.

And god knows Will’s house could use a better heating system. It’s the middle of winter and it feels as though he’s _outside_.

The tiny pooch in his lap yawns cutely, curling up into a better position. Frederick stares aggravatedly down at it, annoyed that it would dare think that he likes it being in his vicinity. To be fair, however, the rest of the pack has decided to lay or sit around him, panting loudly and watching him with their beady eyes. He’s practically covered in dog fur and for once Chilton is grateful that he isn’t wearing his nicer brand-name clothing.

The door opens, creaking like a gunshot in the silence, and the heads of all the occupants in the house raise expectantly. Will steps through, eyes glued to the floor as he stamps off some of the snow from his boots onto the doormat. When he finally glances up, bemused by the lack of greeting, he’s pleasantly surprised by the picture that his guest makes.

Frederick is covered in dogs and is haughtily staring out not only from behind the animals, but from the massive rolls of the sweater Will lent him. He looks… _approachable_. A small, white head pokes its way out of Frederick’s lap, peeking at Will as it decides if it wants to stay in place or get up. Will allows a smile, waving half heartedly at the group.

“Don’t mind me.”

As if on cue all the dogs relax back into place against Chilton who merely huffs in displeasure, resigned to his fate. Will catches his eye long enough to make sure Frederick sees the humor in his gaze.

“It’s a good look for you, Doctor Chilton.”

If Will didn't know better, it almost looks like the other man seems to flush slightly at this before looking away, grumbling something under his breath and pointedly staring down at the book in his grasp. Will moves past to the kitchen, smiling the entire way.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: None
> 
> Warnings: None
> 
> Info: I was originally going to make this a humorous drabble on Chilton going through physical therapy after the Gideon incident and being unable to stretch properly or anything. But then it got sad. Whoops.

He has been told that the rehabilitation process will be slow but steady as long as he keeps his mind on physical therapy, and makes sure to eat and drink well along with exercising. He has been given a list of products he can try while his body is still healing from the procedure to get his organs back inside him. A thick, precise scar runs down his middle, from below his sternum to the bottom of his abdomen. It’s painful to look at in the mirror, to gaze at the ugly raised tissue melding together, held in place by dark stitches.

Frederick feels like a doll, like he isn’t himself. His face, normally tired but at least healthy looking, is drawn and pale, with a sheen to it that Frederick muses all trauma victims must have. His eyes…well, his eyes say too much now. They speak volumes of the horror that he's experienced, shadowed and anguished by the pain he still suffers through, the aches that wrack his body, and the nightmares that plague his sleep. He doesn’t like it. It’s far too open—anyone could know what he’s been through with just a glance. He decides then and there, in his cramped and unwelcoming hospital room, that he’s going to rebuild his mask so that no one can tell what has happened to him.

He will move past this, he will work to ensure that no one will know that what Abel Gideon did to him genuinely affected his emotional and mental well being. It’s the least he can do for himself.

Ten days later no one has come to visit him and no one has sent him get-well-soon cards. He isn’t bothered much, used to his isolation as he is. His doctors are business-like in their instructions, sending him on his way as soon as his stitches are removed and they’re positive that he won’t pop open like an over-stuffed balloon. There’s a small part of him that is almost reluctant to leave the hospital and therefore human contact that isn’t related to his patients or psychiatric opinions. But he leaves nonetheless and when he arrives home it’s almost too difficult to step inside.

He sets his keys quietly on the nearest counter after a moment of hesitation and allows himself to glance around the wide room that he stands in. The house is silent, not even a creak of shifting boards or the quiet groan of wind blowing against windows. The night sky is vast, littered with stars and a moon that is covered by wispy clouds. It occurs to him all too quickly how alone he is, how defenseless he is if anything happens. From the corner of his eye a shadow flickers, looking almost like a person stepping into the light.

Frederick’s heart rate quickens in panic and he nearly trips over himself as he flinches away. Nothing is there, just a black spot cast by a tree outside. The utter stupidity of the situation—a grown man scared of the dark after living so long by himself—is enough to give him strength to carefully grasp his medication and hobble gingerly into his living room.

_Law and Order_ has been playing new episodes and he’s definitely missed the latest few. Somehow though, the fictional situations played on the television seem much more hollow and unrealistic than before. He’s had a psychotic criminal kidnap him, strap him down, and shove his hands into his guts. These make-believe cops and villains are nothing but cutouts, not three-dimensional enough for his liking. With almost anger in the gesture, he clicks the television off and stares at the blank screen.

He doesn’t know what to do. There are a number of stretches that he’s supposed to partake in as well as at least thirty minutes of walking per day, but those are meant for some slot earlier in the day. Not at ten o’ clock at night. Frederick sinks lower onto his too soft couch, raises his feet and adjusts himself accordingly to lay down. He hasn’t even bothered to remove his shoes and normally he would never let dirt track on the cloth like this. But he can’t find it in him to care.

Tomorrow he’ll be fine, he’ll be back to normal enough to try and touch his toes, to prepare a meal that’s simple to make and easy on his stomach, to call into work and decide when he will return. For now…for now he’s going to curl up on his sofa, with all the doors and windows firmly locked and alarm system on, and try not to dream about bloodied fingers displaying his insides eagerly to the world, ripping him open forcibly and putting him on show like a toy.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Have a Little Faith
> 
> Warnings: None.
> 
> Info: Raul said he was a Catholic when he was younger and I wanted to try Chilton attempting to pray and being an awkward baby about it.

He was raised a Catholic, brought into every Sunday service and taught to sing and praise the Lord. He underwent confession and prayed everyday for a good portion of his childhood and early teenage years. He was taught rules and those rules were followed explicitly. When he was sent to his new school the other kids made jokes about Catholic priests and touching boys like him inappropriately. He ignored them, tried not to take offense or allow himself to be mortified by the implication.

(One of the church leaders was good friends with his parents and the mere idea that he would ever stick his hand down Chilton’s pants _horrified_ him.)

After a while he stopped having so much faith, but then that came from a family that seemed to just be going through the motions to keep up appearances over time. Once he became more entangled in his studying and then later on his job, he discarded the idea of church completely.

Which is why he’s befuddled with himself as he stares up at the towering arches of the building he’s hesitating before. It’s the middle of the afternoon and it’s cold, but he’s broken out into a frigid sweat from the effort of hauling himself around this town on foot. The grounds for the church are peaceful, neat, and welcoming. Frederick takes a hesitant step past the front gates, inches towards the large wooden doors like a skittish animal as though he expects God himself to suddenly strike him down for being unfaithful.

When he crosses the threshold and gingerly places a polished shoe down on the sleek tiles, he exhales in relief. There’s a certain amount of weight lifted from his shoulders and old habits kick in. He approaches the alter as quietly as he can, cane clicking on the floor and drawing looks from various people scattered throughout the pews. They’re either huddled in on themselves or peering around and staring at the large stained glass windows. Frederick reaches the peak of the nave and raises his free hand to paint the cross over his chest, inclining his head respectfully.

He still isn’t quite sure why he’s here. He’s by no means a good man even if he’s not a horrible one, and he hasn’t visited a house of faith in years. But oddly…sitting on a front pew and staring up at the large building encasing him almost like a shield, is comforting and it makes him feel more safe than he has in weeks. His hand is shaking on his cane. He quietly sets it in his lap and stares down at his palms.

How does one pray again?

Frederick’s face scrunches up in concentration and something akin to loss.

“Dear God.” He begins in his head, “It has…been a while.”

That feels wrong but he isn’t quite sure how to fix his words.

“It—it—ah, yes, well life has been… _trying._ ”

It feels a little foolish to speak to himself mentally now that he thinks about it. Frederick hesitates once more, allows himself to peek around the church like a child during a sermon, as if to see if everyone else is doing something similar. A woman is crying on the pew across from him. Frederick shifts uncomfortably and looks back down to his cane again, chewing on his bottom lip nervously.

“My kidney was stolen from me.” He blurts in his head, coloring in embarrassment to his silent confession, “But then, you probably already knew that. It’s quite the hindrance to my daily schedule, but I am forging onward as always.”

Was that prideful of him to say? Frederick winces.

“I think I may be in a spot of trouble. There’s someone who is very dangerous and very influential and I…I believe I am next. Jack Crawford doesn’t seem to want to listen to reason,” and here his mental monologue turns a tad spiteful, “but then I should’ve known he wouldn’t.”

The woman sobs a little louder, mumbling something about a child. Frederick tries to ignore her harder and not feel ungrateful.

“I’m not exactly the poster boy for religion any longer, but if you could send some help or, or watch over me that would be appreciated.”

His mental tone is clipped and business like now, rushed in his haste to think words that feel too awkward in his head. The cane in his grip shakes slightly, tremors running along his arms from the spike of fear traveling down his spine at the thought of the devil that waits to do unspeakable things to him.

But then…if Hannibal is truly a devil, maybe having a little faith wouldn’t be too bad of an idea.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **With this chapter I have caught up with the drabbles I published on tumblr and so updates will be less frequent from now on.
> 
> Title: Wait For Me
> 
> Warnings: None.
> 
> Info: Everyone and their mom seems to have written about this but I guess I’ll try it too before we find out what has really happened to Chilton/how he’s being treated. I did as much research as I could on the subject of gunshot wounds specifically in the cheekbone area, but there isn’t a lot said on the treatment unfortunately.
> 
> Unsure if I’ll write a short sequel piece to this or not.

Waking up from a bullet to the face, it seems, hurts more than it looks on TV. He’s been dreaming, drifting through his consciousness that swirls and oozes around him like a psychedelic drug trip, brought on by intense pain and a gas that will ensure he stays knocked out during surgery. He doesn’t remember much of his time under. The bits he does recall have something to do with a limbless Abel Gideon and alarmed looking Freddie Lounds riding a disfigured merry-go-round, Hannibal stalking through the animal themed seats and towards him with the barest of a smile. Every time he tries to run away, Lounds’s mouth flapping frantically but silently and arms gesturing wildly for him to move, he always somehow ends up next to Hannibal again and the chase repeats. 

Needless to say waking up from the nightmare sequences and vibrant colors of his quite overactive mind is a blessing and a curse. When he finally does come to it’s through groaning quietly and his eyelids fluttering in an attempt to bring the world into focus. Everything is blurry as well as misty, things seem to be drifting side to side like they’re on a boat and even though Frederick can hear the murmur of machines around him clearer as seconds pass, he cannot help but wonder for a solid minute if he’s still dreaming.

Finally being able to process where he is—an overly sanitized and frigidly clean hospital room—doesn’t help his temperament. There’s no one here to see him, though he assumes doctors will be at the very least checking soon. Frederick wonders how long he’s been asleep and who made the phone call for an EMT. Do they still believe him to be the Chesapeake Ripper? Does he have to worry about leaving the vaguely comforting confines of the sterilized hospital for the bleak prison cell that probably still awaits him? Can he get anymore medication for his facial wound? The pain caused by his anxiety stabs worse than the dull throbbing in his face, but that doesn’t mean his face doesn’t _hurt_. He muses briefly that the only reason he isn’t yelping in pain is due to the medication ensuring that a good portion of his head remains numb. He then wonders if this means he’s drooled at all.

God, he hopes not.

Fingers twitch, slowly regaining feeling and control, and the mere idea that he might actually be alright is astounding to the doctor. This is the second time that he’s nearly been killed by some holier-than-thou psychopath with a bad sense of humor or—or whatever it is that drives them to think that disemboweling for the purpose of a gift basket, or murdering FBI agents in a person’s house with a perky attitude is alright to do. His attempt to raise his hand is halted by a sudden jerk on his wrist, and while he may not be able to move his head well, he can move his eyes. A glance down informs him that he is handcuffed to the sidebars of his hospital bed. Dread fills him immediately, cutting through the nausea and disorientation from the drugs, filling him to the brim. He can’t breath, he can barely think.

And then Will Graham walks in, expression professional and cool.

Frederick is baffled by this sudden intrusion, dumbly laying there, glancing between his cuffed limbs and his visitor. He tries to open his mouth to speak and winces when his jaw can’t seem to move from a shut position. He can’t open his mouth--there’s something preventing him from being able to speak. _Now_ his adrenaline spikes even worse, making him wheeze through clenched shut teeth. Sweat breaks out on his already damp forehead, leaks down the sides of his pale face while his eyes bulge in panic, dilated pupils trembling. He’s going to have some sort of panic attack at this rate. He’s seen enough of them at his ward to be able to list the symptoms in the back of his head like some sort of mantra while he tries to manage the overwhelming fear that _Hannibal Lecter_ may walk in behind Will Graham. His hands jerk against the cuffs again, the metal biting into the tender skin of his wrists, bruising them lightly.

Will Graham takes this as his cue to move closer, his own hands reluctantly snaking out and firmly grasping each opposing limb, holding them down with a vice grip that seems too strong for someone of his stature. Frederick hysterically marvels over the fact that Graham is actually _maintaining eye contact_ with him now, that it would take an episode of body-chilling terror for the famously distant man to even consider getting this close to a person. To him. A pity that he never managed to crack Will this much when he was still in his care at his hospital. Perhaps things would have gone differently if he'd been successful. Abruptly he realizes that the other man is speaking to him, eyes focusing on the syllables Will’s lips are patiently and emphatically forming. The sudden voice that blares into his hearing like a foghorn has Frederick jolting violently in place.

“ _Frederick_.” Will repeats, keeping him locked in place both with his hands and focused gaze, “Calm down. You're _safe_ , no one is going to hurt you.”

How Graham of all people knows how to handle someone having a panic attack is beyond Chilton, especially given the man’s track record in dealing with societal topics as a whole. But against all odds his breathing does begin to slow to a healthier pace, drifting from a frantic stampede to an average, if nervous, trot. He’s staring down at the flimsy blanket wrapped around his legs by the time his arms finally relax. They feel as weak and boneless as jello.

Graham sits down in a chair next to the bed, hunched but attentive enough. His eyes aren’t locked onto Frederick anymore, and for that he truly is grateful. He assumes neither of them are in the mood for having to pretend to genuinely care about each other. It’s not as though getting shot in the face makes up for the months of being at each other’s throats. Nonetheless he sneaks a glance over to the bespectacled informant and notes the haircut to Graham’s previously wild locks with detached interest. It makes Will either look like some sort of movie villain or highschool senior on a prom date. The thought has him snorting through the tubes in his nostrils in amusement.

Will glances over at the sound, raising an eyebrow in question. Chilton rolls his eyes despairingly at that, allowing himself to sink even more determinedly into the confines of his bed. The other man doesn’t need to explain anything, Frederick has quite a good idea of what is going on. They haven’t managed to prove Hannibal is the real Chesapeake Ripper and Jack is still convinced that he is. Once they’ve patched him up he’ll be sent on his way to a nice jail cell, locked away from anyone that could potentially help prove his innocence forever. He’s going to become one of his patients. The irony is dreadful.

“They are…going to keep you here until your jaw is healed.” Graham finally speaks, tone muted. “Don’t touch the wires. Doctors orders.”

Will’s voice trails off softly with only a small amount of dark humor traced into the wisps of words. As if he could touch the wires even if he wanted to. Frederick performs a halfhearted one shoulder shrug, explaining his bleak feelings on the matter. No use crying over spilled milk, he cynically thinks. Or, in this case, being framed for far too many murders and being accused of cannibalism. He experimentally tries stretching his jaw again, noting that he really can’t open his mouth after all. This is more than likely going to drive him insane as the days pass, especially if Jack is expecting to interrogate him further. Hell, it’s already bugging him like an itch he can’t scratch.

Sticky notes and a pen being set lightly on one of his legs, close to a hand, pulls him out of his melancholic thoughts. Will makes a contained gesture to indicate that he should try writing. This is going to be humiliating and degrading given that he can barely move his arm at all and it’s his less dominant limb, but Frederick resigns himself to his fate and picks up the pen with fumbling fingers.

“ _Why are you her_ ” is all he manages to squish onto the small square, words looping and messier like a child’s compared to his normally neat handwriting.

Graham’s brow furrows momentarily in perhaps confusion or thought before he answers.

“Hannibal still hasn’t been caught.”

Tell him something he doesn’t know. Frederick sighs loudly through his teeth, breath whistling in his throat in a supremely ugly way. Graham looks humored by his attitude, but only slightly, a brief flicker in his dark eyes.

“It takes weeks to heal jaw wounds.” Will states after sitting back in his chair, “You’ll be here the entire time. Monitored.”

Yes, he’s already told him that. He has to squash down his rising irritation at still not knowing what the other man is getting at. Will is staring off towards the door for the bathroom, hands cupped in his lap.

“You will be here Frederick.” He repeats, looking towards him again with an unreadable expression. “In the hospital.”

_So_? What is Graham getting at—ah. Chilton finally stiffens in realization, nearly dropping the pen. Here, not the prison. Here, where he will be watched at all times by a guard since he’s considered a high threat level. Here, where even if Hannibal catches a whiff of him being alive, he cannot reach him without considerable effort and risk to his own alibi. He registers that he’s smiling weakly and Will is attempting to smile back, though it looks more like a worried grimace than anything.

“You look terrible.” He offers and Chilton gives him a bleary glare in return. “…Does it hurt?”

Does what hurt? The gunshot wound? His still prickling abdominal scar? His _pride_? They all ache with the same ferocity, though admittedly the more recent of the wounds throbs a little more. But that might just be the bone damage talking. Graham reads his body language clearly, huffing lowly in amusement to himself and staring down at his worn shoes. He gives a few twitching nods, visibly collecting his words.

“...Right.” Another prolonged moment of hesitation—Will clearly struggles with even the most basic means of communication, “You weren’t supposed to be shot.”

Well, no one expects to be shot. Though if Frederick is truthful with himself, he’s almost expected someone to for quite some time since he’s never been popular with other people. It’s oddly gratifying to know that Graham at least _hadn’t_ meant for him to be treated this way. It’s an apology for a horrid mistake that Chilton will most likely hold a grudge over for a long time, but an apology nevertheless. Takes a bit of the salt off of the wound so to speak.

“We’ll catch him. Before you’re sent to prison.” The other man offers, “You just…concentrate on healing.”

What else is he going to do? Frederick suppresses the urge to roll his eyes again, so very fed up with this entire situation and ready to just give in and agree to whatever will end with him hurting less. He nods towards Graham anyways, reassuring the jittery informant that he understands. Besides, if anyone can catch a mad man it’ll be Will. No one else can get into that psychopath’s head like the psychopath sitting before him. The sentiment, however foolish it seems right now, is a lifesaver in the midst of stormy water and Frederick is secretly thankful that even one person is willing to believe his innocence.

A moment later his doctor is stepping through the door, charts in hand and clearly not surprised by Will’s presence. Will stands as if on cue, gathering his coat and then the pen and paper mechanically. When he leans over to grasp the writing utensil he spares another glance at Chilton.

“Wait for me.” He mumbles.

And if that isn’t the cheesiest thing anyone has ever said to Frederick, but the emotion behind it gives him halt and makes him stop bemoaning his fate to actually consider everything Graham has said to him. Will is already shuffling quickly through the door, never making eye contact with the other doctor and giving Frederick no time to send some sort of flinch or nod as a response. He stares at the doorway in bemusement, mind still hazy from the medication pumping through his bloodstream but suddenly quite appreciative of his ex-patient actually coming to his aid. If he were in his position he’s positive he wouldn’t be so forgiving of Frederick’s, ah, difficult disposition and previous exchanges.

The strange thing is he feels some odd sort of attachment and faith towards Will Graham and his soft spoken words now. If there's anyone out there who hates Hannibal Lecter more than he does, it's definitely Will. Chilton doesn’t make a point of relying on other people this intensely, it’s normally too much of a liability. But Will wants him to wait for him to catch Hannibal, hm?

Frederick finds that he can do that.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: None
> 
> Warnings: Actually NSFW. Men are having sex. (Hannibal/Chilton/Dark!Will)
> 
> Info: So a few days ago I ranted about this AU I’ve been thinking of/drawing for and I finally got the courage to write a little thing on it. Given that I struggle to even draw porn, you can expect this written porn to be unfortunately sort of sub-par. But go ahead and read if you want nonetheless!
> 
> Who knows if I’ll ever write something about this again.

The dinner party is a fairly large event and the turnout of those who are influential in psychiatric circles is intimidating, though Frederick will never admit it to anyone. He’s not quite sure what the special occasion is. Perhaps Hannibal simply wants to host something that will be well attended and spoken of at a later date. Whatever the case, Chilton is almost surprised to see so many familiar faces in one gathering, used to having to handle them at separate events.

He’s paused in the doorway, handing his coat to some faceless attendee, and gathering the courage to step into the figurative lion’s den. It’s bizarrely hilarious how he feels threatened by the crowd, but he assumes it has to do with the fact that he doesn’t have anyone to chat with even idly despite the numerous colleagues he recognizes. Squaring his jaw and raising himself to his full height (which, unfortunately, is still smaller than most), he walks inside as though he’s the guest of honor. He draws some glances, a few amused stares, but mostly is pointedly ignored. No matter. He’s brightly smiling nonetheless and accepts a small chunk of…something from one of the passing waiters.

It tastes good whatever it is.

Hannibal’s house is agonizingly well put together. Frederick’s own home is clinically clean and blindingly white—not that he dislikes how his home looks. He thinks the bare walls and floors and decidedly modern furniture suits him. Admittedly though, there is a certain allure to the rich, warm colors of Hannibal’s home’s interior, as well as the more antique looking furniture sets, with one or two oddities.

Like the painting of the woman and swan entangled together in some sort of compromising position.

Frederick would _really_ like an explanation for that.

For the most part, however, the rest of the house makes up for questionable pieces of art. The food helps as well, and he’s already carefully plucking another artfully crafted something-or-other from a different tray. This too tastes delicious and it’s with sudden clarity that he realizes the reason he isn’t feeling pained by the food traveling through his intestines, is because there’s no meat in the piece he’s just consumed. Or the one before that. Frederick glances around, peering at other serving trays curiously. As far as he can see, there seems to be no meat on any of the toothpick shish kabobs. Why in the world Hannibal seems to be serving an all vegan menu is beyond him, and while he is inwardly grateful, he’s more puzzled than anything.

“Doctor Chilton.”

Hannibal’s voice jolts him out of his musings. Frederick adjusts his grip on his cane and smiles welcomingly at his host, who returns the expression on a more muted level.

“Doctor Lecter—this all looks wonderful!” He makes an encompassing gesture towards the room.

“Thank you.” Hannibal graciously accepts the compliment, “I am curious though, have you tried any of the food yet?”

This gives him pause.

“Well, yes. I’m surprised, some of the dishes you’re serving are apparently vegan if I’m not mistaken?” He’s treading carefully, not wanting to assume wrongly and accidentally insult the man.

“You are almost correct. _All_ of the dishes are vegetarian.”

“ _All of them_?” He’s flabbergasted by the statement, unsure what to make of it, “Surely you have something for guests who aren’t inclined towards meatless products.”

“Of course. However, I also have several colleagues who are vegetarian, whether by choice or circumstances.” Here Hannibal directs a more pointed look down at Frederick, and he cannot help but shift in place self consciously, “Normally they must take the time to pick meals. Tonight I am giving them the opportunity to not have to worry about such things.”

It seems like an awfully odd thing to do for only a few people, but if Hannibal says this is only fair, well, who’s to say Frederick should look a gift horse in the mouth?

“That’s very kind of you, Doctor Lecter.” He eases into another smile, “I’ll be certain to try everything I can.”

“I should hope so, Frederick.” Hannibal leans closer, “These dishes were requested for you.”

Before he can think about what’s been said to him, Hannibal himself is gone. Frederick can feel his face heating into a faint flush that covers his cheeks, and he hurriedly grabs something else from a tray to cover up his embarrassment. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Did someone ask for an all-vegetarian menu to make fun of him and point out his stomach injury publicly? It’s not as though what Gideon did to him is a secret by any means. If even his staff knows the dirty details there’s no way there’s not a single person in this building that doesn’t as well.

Frederick chances a glance around the room, his grip on his cane tightening. It’s a mistake on his part to come to this evening’s entertainment if he’s just going to be subtly mocked. He eats the toothpick ensemble with a mixture of frustration and begrudging acceptance. Clearly if he’s being made fun of he’ll just have to deal with it. It’s not as though this is the first time he’s been teased in a cruel manner. Frederick swallows thickly, glances at the ground, the exotic plant beside him, and the awkward swan painting, trying to distract himself from his mounting ire.

It’s Will Graham stopping before him that draws him out of his quiet cocoon, a glass of wine in one of his hands. The drink looks out of place in his grip, far too fancy for the man with messy black hair and large black spectacles. But Graham sips from it like he’s used to it, and so Frederick wisely doesn’t comment on his beverage of choice.

“Doctor Chilton.” Will softly greets, looking a tad hunched in on himself.

“Mister Graham.” He slowly replies, “I was not expecting to see you here.”

“Why is that?” Graham’s tone is both curious and expectant. For a brief moment Frederick flounders, not expecting to be questioned on his greeting.

“Ah—well, these sorts of things never quite seemed to be something you’d flock to. If you’ll forgive me from my assumptions, you seem more of a…” He awkwardly trails off and tries to find the correct words.

"A…?" Will repeats, watching him with an unreadable expression.

“A person that would rather enjoy an evening relaxing alone than having to put up with the problems other people cause.”

Will visibly contemplates this, though if it’s just for show Frederick isn’t sure. The other man sets his glass down on the table beside them, leaning on the furniture with little grace. Chilton can see over Graham’s shoulder that Alana Bloom is now staring at them curiously and suspiciously from her position near Crawford, as though she’s expecting Frederick to throw Will into a chair and forcibly psychoanalyze him. It makes him want to scoff—what does she think he is? A _barbarian_?

“You might be right.” Graham’s voice draws him out of his sour thoughts, “I’ve never really cared for being…sociable. And most people I’ve had dealings with have been less than helpful.”

Will gives him a pointed look that has him shifting uncomfortably in place. Alana, for her part, is now making her way towards them with a look of sheer determination on her face. Frederick almost wants to back away from the danger radiating off of her person.

“And yet you’re talking to me now.” He quickly replies.

“…I guess I am, yes.” Will contemplates this shortly, then suddenly quirks his head towards a side door, “I was wondering if I could speak to you about something.”

Frederick hesitates, unsure what to say to that. Will Graham hates him, and to be fair, he doesn’t exactly care for the other man himself. He doesn’t have a happy history with the informant, and for Will to seek him out and ask for a favor almost seems unreal. Alana is nearly on them, having had to pause for a moment to work her way through a brief conversation with a couple. Will is staring at him expectantly, as though he already knows Frederick will agree.

Well, he’s not wrong.

“Very well, Mister Graham. Lead on.”

An actual smile grows on Will’s face, faint but promising.

The room they arrive in is large and decorated just as warmly as the rest of the house that Frederick has seen. He takes a second to peer around, his careful footsteps and subsequent cane tapping sounding far too loud in the quiet of the new enclosure. Will stands behind him, watching him map out the well kept room silently. Chilton finally turns with an expectant expression, refraining from presenting himself too callously.

“Well then, what is it you wanted to talk to me about?”

Before Will can answer there is a careful knock from another one of the doors, this one adjacent to the one they entered. Frederick pauses from looking around the room to stare. Does someone else know they’ve entered in here? Is it _Alana_? Though if it is, surely she would’ve used the door they’d entered through if she’d seen. Will walks at a leisurely pace over to the opposing wall, opening the door without pause.

Hannibal is on the other side, and he steps in as soon as Will allows it.

Now Frederick is more than just puzzled. Does this have to do with Graham’s psychiatric visits with Lecter? Is the other doctor seeking another opinion on his development with the, quite frankly in Chilton’s opinion, _bizarre_ patient of his? He’s watching them both as Will closes the door quietly behind him. Something is off about the entire situation, something seems different than just Hannibal wanting his help, or Will needing to speak to him.

“Am I missing something?” Frederick smiles, but it’s one of uncertainty and wariness.

The duo exchange a glance, unnerving Chilton by how in tune they seem with each other. Hannibal is the one who speaks up this time while Will waits in the background, eyes dark and hidden behind his mop of hair.

“I was hoping to ask for your professional opinion on a fairly important subject, Frederick.” His tone suggests that he wants something completely different, “Could we talk?”

Chilton’s eyes dart back and forth between the two men, stance tensed for reasons he can’t quite explain other than getting some sort of uneasy air from the both of them. But if Lecter wants to inquire on something like he’d thought…well.

“I…don’t see why not.”

—

His pants are clinging to his thighs, belt slowly but surely weighing the cloth down to drag inch by inch to the floor. His jacket has been long since discarded to the side, crumpled on the ground in a way that will surely leave wrinkles if it isn’t dealt with immediately. There’s a hand grasping his tie, pulling it taut against his throat and applying just enough pressure to make him rasp whenever he breaths, while the other hand rubs circles on his hipbone. There’s another set of hands that are gripping his own wrists in a vice-lock behind his back as well as raking up the length of his abdominal scar mercilessly. Chilton hisses in some sort of mixture of pain and pleasure, eyes dropped down to stare at his erection dribbling pre-come.

Hannibal is behind him, a solid weight to lean against and to hold him up while his cane lays uselessly on the floor. Will is carefully applying pressure to his front, cutting off his air just so and running his long fingers everywhere but his dick. It’s maddening, it has Frederick jerking in Hannibal’s grasp and flinching towards Will’s hand desperately. He should be ashamed of the level of enthusiasm at which he’s displaying for the two, but if the emotion is there it’s long since been pushed into the background in favor of the heat that is coiling in his belly and trickling into his groin.

“Need something?” Will murmurs quietly into his ear, breath tickling his skin. His hand lightly traces the length of Frederick’s erection, enough to make him inhale sharply and jerk towards the motion. He doesn’t want to beg, it’s something that Chilton has never been able to see himself doing since middleschool when he pleaded with bullies not to punch him again.

“Talking will be rewarded.” Hannibal promises into his other ear, voice a low rumble that sends shivers up his spine.

This is horrendously against all psychiatric protocol. He and Hannibal could lose their _license_ for being caught with a patient, even if Will isn’t one of Frederick’s own. There’s no way that he can ask for the unexpected situation to stop though, not with Will lightly grasping his dick and running his thumb over the head, making him audibly whimper much to his embarrassment. It’s after another moment of indecision, leaning into Graham’s hand as best as he can given his trapped position between the two, that he speaks up frantically once Will’s grip starts to loosen.

“ _Wait_!” He blurts, flushing at the way Graham smiles indulgently, “P-please. Please, ah.”

“Please what, _Frederick_?”

The way Will pronounces his name is deliberately slow with emphasis on each syllable, breaking his name into three parts. Chilton shivers again, flushes even brighter when Hannibal’s hand traces his scar over and over.

“Please…do something.” He mumbles, unable to meet either gaze.

“Something?” Hannibal repeats, obviously amused with the way Chilton is struggling to keep his composure and dignity intact, “Such as this?”

It’s much to Chilton’s surprise that _Hannibal’s_ hand is the one moving down to grip his aching erection and give an experimental pump, yanking a loud and surprised moan out of him. Will stares approvingly at him and watches with interest as Hannibal’s hand continues to move, drawing more whimpers and broken gasps out of the normally talkative doctor. Frederick is caught in a rush of heat and pleasure.

“ _Yes_ —please.” He whispers back, trembling in Hannibal’s grasp.

Graham smiles widely, pleased with his response. He slides down to his knees, freeing his grip from Frederick’s tie to run his hands down his sides and legs. Chilton watches with dazed eyes, unsure what exactly the other man is up to until he feels soft lips mouthing along his scar. He yelps, jerks in Hannibal’s hold, and earns an approving sound from the taller man.

Graham is nipping and licking a hot trail, making his sensitive skin tingle and shoot more heat to his groin. He’s flustered by the attention his healed wound is receiving, both wanting to cringe away from Will’s mouth and push into it, shirt sliding up as Graham continues along to swirl his tongue around a nipple. Chilton’s swearing in Spanish, babbling in confusion when Hannibal suddenly grips his erection tightly at the base and halts his slow movements.

Frederick shuts up quite fast when Will crouches back down and sucks experimentally on his tip, tongue flicking out across the head in a way that has his toes curling. He knows he’s panting loudly now, speaking haltingly in another language and nearly whining for release. But Hannibal’s hand is a lock preventing climax from hitting while Will sucks on his dick languidly and presses his tongue against the underside of his erection with just enough pressure to make him beg for god.

He tries to thrust into the heat, tries to loosen Hannibal’s hand on him, but Graham’s nails dig into his hips and prevent him from wiggling forward and towards relief. He’s unsure how long he’s been kept here, begging for release and cursing more and more brokenly in both English and Spanish, legs shaking from overexertion and desire, but Hannibal and Will don’t stop and keep him locked in place, locked into this almost torturous experience. Hannibal continues to whisper promises into his ear, his own talented tongue spinning along words that paint clear pictures in his mind of what both Hannibal and Will want to do to him in the room, in his office, on Hannibal’s desk.

“ _Dios mío_ —please, Will— _please_ —” He’s near sobbing from the need for someone to let him come.

Will stares up at him through his thick curls, sucks hard one last time, and then pulls his mouth free with an obscene noise. Frederick is a wreck, he knows he is. He doesn’t need a mirror to see how his pants gather at his ankles and his shirt rumples around his stomach, or even how his now wet and flushed erection leaks lewdly. Will considers him for a moment, lets his eyes roam up and down the doctor’s form and trace his body as though he’s memorizing the sight.

“Good.” He finally says approvingly, “I’m going to go find Alana.”

Frederick jolts in surprise, caught off guard. _Alana_ — _what_ —he’s not going to bring her in here, is he? The panic must show on his face because Will pats his cheek in a manner that is only half comforting.

“No, no, Frederick. I’m going back to the party, don’t worry.” His voice has dropped back to a murmur, though his voice rasps in an unfairly attractive way, “It wouldn’t do if all the guests took notice of our absence, would it?”

And then just like that Will Graham is gone, slipping out the door Hannibal came in as silently as a ghost. Chilton is catching his breath, though his erection is still throbbing expectantly, his confusion beginning to override his desire to be fucked. Hannibal suddenly moves behind him, releases his wrists to cup his neck at first carefully but then harshly, pulling him tightly against his chest. Frederick chokes in surprise, hands coming up to grab at the other man’s arm to try and pull it away. The sudden lack of air is dizzying, but even more is the feeling of Hannibal’s hand moving again on his cock, pumping him enough to make his hips thrust towards the contact. He gives choked moans, eyes fluttering shut at the wonderful feeling of tingling anticipation building in his groin.

Before he can come he’s abruptly sat down and then Hannibal has left as well, leaving him dumbfounded on the floor, flushed and panting for air. It takes more than a moment to collect himself and realize that he’s alone now with an aching hard on and release so close. Will and Hannibal have left him alone to deal with his erection. The humiliation and shame is near suffocating—he feels as though he’s not being mocked per se, but oddly enough _collared_. He doesn’t have the right mind to contemplate the odd thought, as one of his hands inch slowly towards his erection to relieve himself. Before he quite knows what he’s doing he’s taken himself in hand and with only a few tugs he’s spilling into his palm and, luckily, not on the floor or his clothes. Frederick manages to choke down his cries, to cover his mouth and ensure no one outside the room will hear his moans and investigate.

By the time the pleasure-induced haze ebbs away from his mind and he can think rationally again, he’s already hurriedly pulling his pants up and fumbling to secure his buckle. He already knows his clothes will be a lost cause, they’ll be mussed no matter what he does which means he needs to leave before anyone catches sight of him. There’s a box of tissues placed on a small stand to the right of him and he stumbles towards it, wiping his hand down quickly. It only takes another brief moment of hesitation to stuff the tissues in a pocket, not wanting to leave evidence of his…meet up with Lecter and Graham. His cane is gathered, used as support for still shaking limbs.

Chilton escapes as quickly as he can, nearly snapping at the doorman for not fetching his coat quickly enough, and retreats to his car so quickly he almost slips on icy steps. He doesn’t notice two sets of eyes watching him with interest through a window, drinking in his trembling legs and ruffled hair with varying levels of satisfaction.

There will be time later to engage with Doctor Frederick Chilton again, and they intend on doing so.


End file.
